Christmas in Lucky Harbor Read online

  “It’s my boss.” Tara swiped beneath her eyes. “Mascara?”

  “Still okay,” Mia assured her. “You need the waterproof kind, though. And a nicer boss, like I have.”

  Tara laughed and got to her feet, brushing off her butt and hoping she wasn’t wrinkled. “Come to the diner after you finish here, and I’ll make you dinner.”

  “Can I bring someone?”

  Carlos, Tara thought, which was something else that had been keeping her up at night—the idea of the teens moving too fast. Already, they were inseparable. “Honey, about Carlos,” she started slowly. “He’s”—A horny teenage boy?—“too old for you.”

  “He’s my age.”

  “Well then, he’s too…” Hell. He was too nothing. He was a great kid. But no boy was going to be good enough, she knew that already.

  “Actually,” Mia said. “I meant Ford. Do you have any objections to him? Because he likes to watch you cook. He told me.”

  Tara paused, struggling to change gears. “He did? What else did he tell you about me?”

  “That he loves to see you and me together.”

  Aw. Dammit. There went her heart again, squeezing hard.

  This question was accompanied by a certain look in her daughter’s eyes, a speculative gaze that had Tara narrowing hers. “Sugar, you’re not up to anything sneaky, are you?”

  “Like?” Mia asked innocently.

  Oh, Lord. “Like trying to get Ford and me together?”

  “Hey, I didn’t start the poll.”

  “Mia.”

  Mia was suddenly looking much younger than her seventeen years. “Would it be so awful?”

  “I just don’t want to disappoint you,” Tara said. “Because Ford and I, we’re not—”

  “I know, I know. You’ve mentioned this a time or a hundred.” Mia’s attention was suddenly diverted by something behind Tara. “You’d better go. You don’t want to be late to the diner.”

  Tara turned to look behind her at whatever had caught Mia’s eyes and saw Carlos, walking across the yard toward the marina building.

  “So have a good shift,” Mia said, getting to her feet. “See you later.”

  “Mia—”

  But Mia was already halfway to Carlos, and back to looking very much seventeen.

  Much later that night, Tara awoke to someone trying to chainsaw their way into the cottage. She sat straight up and realized it was just her sister snoring.

  From the next bedroom over.

  Tara looked at the clock—midnight. Great. She slipped out of bed and down the hall to Chloe’s room. “Turn over.”

  Chloe muttered something in her sleep that sounded like “a little to the left, Paco.”

  “Chloe!” Tara said, louder.

  Chloe rolled over and blessed silence reigned.

  With a sigh, Tara went back to bed and started to drift off. She got halfway to a dream that involved her naked and being worshipped by Ford’s very talented tongue before Chloe began sawing logs again. Tara looked at the clock.

  Midnight plus two minutes.

  Hell. Sleep was out of the question, and anyway now she was hungry. She must have been channeling her sister Maddie because suddenly she wanted some chips. Needed some chips, quite desperately, as a matter of fact. Only problem, there were none in the cottage; she’d removed them for Maddie’s sake. The only place she knew to get chips was in town.

  Or… on Ford’s boat.

  Was it breaking and entering to board a man’s boat and steal food? No doubt. But hell, she’d already stolen his shirt. In fact, she was wearing it right now, so what was one more act of pilfering?

  Her stomach growled, and making her decision, she rolled out of bed once more. At the door, she realized she needed shoes, and slipped into the only ones she had out—her wedge sandals. She gave a brief thought to how she must look in Ford’s shirt, panties, and the heeled wedges. Ready for a “Girls Gone Wild” video.

  No one else will see you at this hour, she assured herself. The boat was only fifty yards across the driveway. She ran in the heels, skirting around the marina building and onto the dock, by some miracle not twisting an ankle or breaking her neck.

  The night was noisy. No wind, but there was an owl hooting softly somewhere on the bluffs, and the answering cry of its mate. Crickets sang, and the water, stirred by the moon’s pull, pulsed against the dock, slapping up hard against the wood.

  In Houston, Tara had slept in a fourth-floor condo. City lights had slashed through her windows, blotting out the moon’s glow, and there’d been no noise except for the drone of the air conditioning just about 24/7. Six months ago, when she’d first arrived in Lucky Harbor—bitchy, resentful, and unhappy—she’d hated the sound of nature at night. It’d kept her up, and she’d lay in bed for hours, mind racing. But somehow, over the months, she’d come to accept the noises. Even welcome them.

  They soothed her now, as did the utter darkness of the night itself. There were no city lights here, nothing to mute the glorious stars. She would stay outside and enjoy the night but she wasn’t exactly dressed for it. And those chips were calling her name. She did have a bad moment boarding the boat in the wedges, and pictured falling into the water between the boat and the dock and being found with Ford’s T-shirt up around her ears.

  Once she managed to board, she headed below deck, and as hoped found a bag of chips on the counter in the tiny galley. She downed her first mouthful, and her hand was loaded with her second when the light came on. Blinking in the sudden brightness, she turned and faced…

  Ford.

  He took in the fact that her mouth was full, her fingers loaded with more chips, and began to smile. By the time he eyed her undoubtably bedhead hair, bare legs, and heels, it was a full-blown grin. “Nice,” he said.

  “This isn’t what it looks like.”

  “No?” He wore sweatpants low on his hips and nothing else. His hair was rumpled in that sexy way that guys’ hair get when they’ve been sleeping. He leaned back against the opposite counter and slid his hands into his pockets. Relaxed. Watchful.

  Amused.

  Damn him.

  “So what do you think it looks like?” he wanted to know.

  Like she was a crazy chick so on the verge of losing it that she’d broken and entered and stolen his chips. “Uh…”

  His eyes had locked in on her shirt. “You’re either chilly or very happy to see me—is that my shirt?”

  Crap. She looked down and crossed her arms over herself, which made the shirt rise up higher on her thighs, possibly exposing her pink lace panties.

  This momentarily diverted his attention downward. His smile went naughty and the air around them heated to scorching.

  Yeah, definitely she’d exposed her underwear.

  “That is,” he said. “That’s my shirt.”

  She didn’t really want to talk about the shirt. “I couldn’t sleep. I got hungry and figured you had chips.”

  “So you committed felony B&E,” he said, nodding. “Good plan. Except for the getting caught part. Were you going to sleep in my bed, too, Goldilocks?”

  The way he said bed brought vivid memories of all the mind-blowing, amazing things he’d done to her in a bed. And out of a bed… “No,” she said. “That would be rude.”

  He laughed softly. “Are you still working on your issues?”

  “Yes,” she said primly. “You?”

  “I’m a work in progress, babe.” He slid her a bad boy smile. “Still hungry?”

  Oh boy. “Yes,” she whispered.

  He crooked a finger at her. “Come here, Goldilocks.”

  “That would be… a really bad idea.”

  “I can make it so bad it’s good.”

  Gah. “You’ve got to stop that.”

  “Stop what?” he asked.

  Looking hot, she thought. Talking naughty.

  Breathing.

  As she turned to face the counter and set down the bag of chips, she grabbed a bottle of w